


A repugnance for the mechanistic

by Woldy



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Kink, Other, Porn With Plot, Vibrator, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-10
Updated: 2010-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-06 02:03:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woldy/pseuds/Woldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s disgust that makes him do it: the Malfoy’s characteristic horror for Muggles and their mechanistic universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A repugnance for the mechanistic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my kink bingo prompt ‘fucking machines’. This is weird, semi-apocalyptic porn with a bunch of meta thrown in, and it’s not betaed, so read at your own risk...

The thing is a sickly, unnatural pink, cool and hard to the touch. Draco takes it carefully out of the wrapping and turns it in his hands, fingertips tracing over the surface until he finds the switch.

It’s disgust that makes him do it: the Malfoy’s characteristic horror for Muggles and their mechanistic universe. The antithesis of the pure, magical blood in his veins isn’t the Mudbloods, but what they create - the monsters of flint and bronze and steel, each of which encroaches on the magical world more than the last.

The Death Eaters never feared the Muggles themselves - why would you fear something so pitiful and helpless? They feared the technology. Every metal contraption soaring through the sky, every projectile spinning towards its target, every tablet that erases the pain, is a threat. One day, Muggles will be capable of replicating any spell that wizards have ever cast, and will break their wands like matchsticks.

What an irony that the first mechanical device Draco ever witnessed first hand, close enough to run his hand over the gleaming paintwork, was the Hogwarts Express.

Sometimes Draco thinks that the people who built that train are responsible for his perverted fantasies, because trains are such an obvious metaphor for sex. The billowing steam as it builds momentum, pistons slick and gleaming as they accelerate, and that’s without mentioning the tunnels. It’s not magic that carries them to adulthood, but gears and levers, the rattle of carriages and stink of smoke.

It’s all too easy to intellectualize this, but Draco would be lying to himself - and he’s a master at that - if he didn’t acknowledge the family connection. He recalls his father’s sneer and clipped words at the sight of Granger and her parents, remembers Aunt Bella’s mad laugh and the sickly flash as her spells tore a Muggle family apart, leaving only blood and fragments of bone. His grandfather’s picture hangs in the dining room and Draco can imagine his shock and disgust at the idea of what Draco is about to do. There’s a reason he has chosen the only room in the Manor which doesn’t contain a portrait.

Draco raises his wand and then stops, blushing despite himself. No, this isn’t something that should be done with a wand. He needs to do this with his hands, the Muggle way, every repellent moment of it.

Slowly Draco lowers his wand and grasps the little bottle, flipping open the cap and pouring the fluid onto his fingers. It is translucent, scentless, not unlike the product of the spell he usually uses except that this was created with Muggle science and not magic.

Draco slides his fingers across his arsehole, circling it and then presses inside. He waits only a few seconds for his body to adjust and then slides his fingers deeper, an almost cursory attempt to ready himself. He withdraws his fingers and then reaches for the thing, squeezing a little of the fluid onto it, and his hand trembles as he spreads the liquid over the tip.

At the sight of the thing, unnaturally smooth and glistening, bile rises in his throat.

Draco closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He’s hard, harder than ever, because he doesn’t just want to be fucked - plenty of wizards would oblige - he wants the self-loathing of being penetrated by... By some metallic thing with its ekeltricity and obscene, whirring parts.

For a moment, Draco wonders what his parole officer would have to say about this, and whether the Ministry-appointed psychologist would regard it as evidence of his adjustment to “a diverse, tolerant society that treats Muggles with respect” or a sign of some malignant, deeper sickness.

Eyes clenched shut, he reaches down to position the thing until it nudges against his arsehole. Draco takes another deep breath, and pushes it inside, ignoring the burn of having barely enough lube. This isn’t supposed to be comfortable.

He presses it deeper, until the flared base rests against his arse cheeks, until his body feels split open around it, laid bare, violated. Draco pauses, steeling himself for the final act of desecration, this betrayal of Slytherin’s world, and then pushes the button.


End file.
